Those Guys Are Lucky They're Pretty
by Harbour Master
Summary: In which Ryan and Dean call out and rag on their least favourite shows on the Paranormal, and Sergey and Sam are left to nod their heads encouragingly and put up with them. Coarse language, and a little bit of crack!


I own nothing, and I know no one. Kripke owns Dean and Sam, and Ryan and Serge own Ryan and Serge. I'm just the crazy gal who throws it all together. Please review, peoples. Reviews are love.

* * *

Ryan flipped through the channels before him idly, dull blue light pouring from the television screen and casting eerie pools against the walls of the living room behind him. It felt good to be home from a case, just relaxing and channel-surfing. Next to him, Sergey squinted down at his crossword, not bothering to turn on the little side table lamp for illumination. Ryan bit his tongue. He had told Sergey enough times about ruining his vision by trying to read or write in poor light; reminding him would only be wasted breath.

The dark haired boy settled on a show finally, and caused Sergey to look up at the screen when he scoffed loudly.

* * *

"Wouldya' look at this _crap_?" Dean muttered, mouth screwing to the side in a look that was part puzzlement and half-sneer. Pulling his gritty flannel shirt off over his head and screwing his eyes shut against the onslaught of grave dust that billowed from the fabric as he tugged, he listened to the opening credits with a male voice making a mini infomercial pimping 'Penn State.' He just didn't understand how anyone could watch programming like this.

"Whassa matter?" Sam wondered, flicking his chin upward at his big brother, now distracted from cleaning the guns and waiting for Dean to start in with his usual complaints about either one of two things when it came to his precious television: inaccurate portrayals of the supernatural or ugly people being cast in leading roles. "What's wrong with _this _show?"

* * *

"For one thing-" Ryan enlightened, "look at that car they're driving around!"

Sergey shrugged, admiring the shining black paint job as the car in question hurtled down some dusty country road, spilling classic rock music in its wake. "What's wrong with it? It's a sweet ride."

"Pfft, yeah, sweet, _maybe_, but totally impractical for this line of work."

* * *

Sam raised his eyebrows as Dean's tirade continued. His brother was such a friggin' nit-picker.

"I mean- fer Chrissakes, Sammy, they're driving like- a white _soccer-mom van_ or something. In this line of work? _Please_. They're about two steps away from looking like a damn ice cream truck!"

* * *

"It's faster for getting around from case to case when you have to cover a lot of distance," Sergey pointed out.

* * *

"It's got way more space for carting around equipment," Sam defended, lowering himself onto the end of the little double bed in their nameless, shitty motel room and sinking into the show with Dean. "And I can bet you that if they couldn't find a motel room while on a case, and they had to sleep in it, _all_ of them could lay down in the back and feel comfortable enough. Not like the impala, your neck gets all bent if you sleep in her for too long…"

"Hey!" Ryan defended, "don't sound so excited about our van or anything!"

* * *

"Don't you bad-mouth my baby!" Dean threatened.

* * *

Ryan frowned. "And all the secrecy and solitude and fake I.D.s and run-ins with the law- I dunno, you'd think they'd have more problems than they do."

* * *

"And just look at that guy- posing for a camera, leaving technical evidence and paper trails! And he going around telling everybody his real name and all that bullshit- you'd think they'd have more problems than they do."

* * *

"And, what is it? Dan and Sean?"

* * *

"What's his face? Bryan and Thor?"

* * *

"Dean and Sam," Sergey corrected Ryan.

* * *

"Ryan and Serge," Sam corrected Dean.

* * *

"Yeah, whatever-" Ryan breezed, motioning at the screen as the two men in question idly cleaned a number of their various weapons as they discussed a case, "just look at all their fucking guns and knives, and like…the _arsenal_ they're carting around in their trunk. Both of them continually have a sawed-off or a pistol shoved in their waistband- it's just so gangland and over the top. Unnecessary."

* * *

"Do I _look_ like I care what Dumb and Dumber's names are? Pssh," Dean scoffed, pointing in derision at the screen, voice accusatory. "Look at that! _Look at that_! Where are their _guns_, their _knives_, all the necessary _equipment_? I bet if we went through that ice cream truck they call a mode of transportation, we wouldn't even find a packet of left over salt from a diner, let alone any silver, or any protective amulets. And that- that _Ganzfeld thing_? I think I may have told you bed time stories about it- when you were four."

* * *

Chuckling, Ryan reflected, "These guys are just like the Ghost Busters."

* * *

Dean let out a mirthless laugh. "These kids remind me a lot of the Ghost Facers..."

* * *

Ryan sighed. "It's just too hardcore to be believable."

* * *

Dean rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. "It's just too tame to be believable."

* * *

"Also," Ryan muttered, squinting uneasily at the screen, "doesn't it seem odd how close those guys are? Like…they're always together, only ever with each other…there's all sorts of touchy-feely moments going on, lots of angst, a lot of hugging…sorta odd, don't you think?"

* * *

Dean frowned. "Between me and you Sammy, I think those guys are banging each other- the tall dark-haired kid and the shorter blonde one. I mean- it just seems like there's something goin' on there, you know? Calling out for each other, rubbin' the guy's back when he's puking, getting all huffy when the pretty boy finally wants to do something ballsy with that helmet-thing…"

* * *

Sergey sighed, before standing and stretching. "I guess you're right, Ry." He left Ryan to watch the show.

* * *

"Whatever you say, Dean…" Sam muttered, moving off the edge of the bed to take a shower, and leaving Dean alone to finish the program.

* * *

Ryan shook his head.

* * *

Dean rubbed a hand over his face.

* * *

"**My God, this is **_**so**_** misrepresentational…" he muttered. "Those guys are lucky they're pretty, or else no one would watch this crap!"**


End file.
